


Torchlight

by scatterglory



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-13
Updated: 2010-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-06 05:57:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scatterglory/pseuds/scatterglory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This came to me as I was reading for my class on Masterpieces in the Prado (I'm studying in Spain, and every Thursday we go to Spain's best art museum to learn things about stuff).  The article was about Diego Velazquez, <a id="cutid1" name="cutid1"></a>who was the official court painter for Felipe IV in the 18th century.  This article was specifically about Las Meninas (the Handmaidens), which is considered his greatest masterpiece. If anyone cares, I can go on about this later.  At great length.  Anyhow, what struck me was the emphasis the article placed on the "special" relationship between monarchs and their painters, particularly Felipe IV and Velazquez.  And since I was too lazy to explore this with my own characters . . .</p>
    </blockquote>





	Torchlight

**Author's Note:**

> This came to me as I was reading for my class on Masterpieces in the Prado (I'm studying in Spain, and every Thursday we go to Spain's best art museum to learn things about stuff). The article was about Diego Velazquez, who was the official court painter for Felipe IV in the 18th century. This article was specifically about Las Meninas (the Handmaidens), which is considered his greatest masterpiece. If anyone cares, I can go on about this later. At great length. Anyhow, what struck me was the emphasis the article placed on the "special" relationship between monarchs and their painters, particularly Felipe IV and Velazquez. And since I was too lazy to explore this with my own characters . . .

Torchlight

 

The room was too dim to see the brush strokes from the doorway, but King John couldn't tear his eyes away. A single torch on the wall illuminated the canvas, most of which was blocked by the painter's body. His jacket was strewn on the floor and his white undershirt was streaked with pigment, but the man's attention was only on his work.

 

King John watched silently; though Master McKay seemed utterly absorbed in his work, John knew that the slightest noise would break his spell of creative concentration and send the painter into a daze of confusion. As a result, John never dared to enter the studio uninvited—though he would never admit it to any member of his court, including Queen Elizabeth, the rules that traditionally governed the relationship between monarch and painter had never been applicable to McKay.

 

John remembered his father's court painter, a small and gnarled old man with a kind smile and clever hands. Stevens and John's father had never deviated from the perfectly choreographed rules—his father commissioned what he desired and was able to enter the studio on a whim, and in return Stevens alone of all the court painters was allowed to paint the royal family. To be an official court painter was the ultimate goal of every would-be master churned out of the hundreds of school and workshops across Europe; all save one. John watched his back curve over the canvas, bent beneath the weight of his vision, and wondered uneasily if his choice had been overly motivated by personal bias.

 

McKay had seemed content to be one of the crowd of minor painters in John's court, assisting the masters and making smaller copies of their great works to send as gifts to allies and nobles. He kept to himself and had certainly never approached the king, but on one of his few visits to Master Zelenka's workshop, John had found himself captivated by the apparently disproportionate concentration McKay applied to his menial copyist labor. It wasn't until Zelenka had turned purple with rage and shattered McKay's wooden pallet that John realized McKay hadn't merely been copying Zelenka's painting—he'd been improving it.

 

Only the king could prevent a court painter from dismissing a member of his workshop, but John didn't stop there. McKay seemed slightly bemused to find himself catapulted from copyist to court painter in the space of a few hours, but shrugged his shoulders and barely acknowledged John's nearly hesitant order to begin a new painting.

 

When that first commission, a pastoral scene of the palace gardens that included Queen Elizabeth and her ladies reading on the lawn, was finally hung in the salon, McKay had accepted the title of Master with an equally unconcerned, summary gratitude. The work was indeed a masterpiece—even the bitter Zelenka conceded that fact. When Stevens had retired several months later, few people questioned John's appointment of McKay to the king's personal painter, the highest position an artisan could hold in his court.

 

John had no doubts about the man's talent. He was an artistic genius, able to tease meaning and beauty out of the most mundane scene, and imbue the minutest details with layers and shades of meaning that left the court both in awe and discomfort. McKay favored dark, rich colors with dim lighting and dramatic shadows, punctuated by small points of light and color, like a shining golden chain or a single red curtain. John didn't delude himself—he knew the true depth of the man's art eluded him, and was completely honest, as least internally, in admitting that had the masterpieces come from any other hand, he would have been far less captivated.

 

But everything about McKay fascinated him. The way his mouth turned down at one corner but not the other, the small crease between his eyebrows, the hunch of his shoulders—all the small signs of an intensity of focus that drowned out everything around him—colleagues, palace and king, and transported him to a realm far beyond where John could follow. Even when McKay remembered himself and was courteous to John as befitted a courtier to his monarch, John knew that his painter saw only lines on canvas and never the world around him.

 

This was the third night that John had watched his painter unnoticed. McKay would go to his salon as the rest of the court slept and paint for hours by the light of a single torch. John was almost in pain with the desire to see the painting, but during the daylight hours, McKay hid the unassuming canvas out of sight.

 

Although he was always focused, tonight was different—McKay was almost frantic, alternating between long, broad strokes and minute dabs, barely pausing to add paint to his brush. John had no idea how long he'd been watching—he felt caught up in whatever spell McKay was under.

 

And then the spell was broken—somehow the paintbrush flew from McKay's hands and clattered to the floor. John had the vague idea that he should hide, but it was too late—McKay bent to retrieve his instrument, and their eyes met.

 

His painter froze—John could almost see his world shattering, his realities colliding as he struggled to speak. "Your M-Majesty—"

 

John felt something in his chest clench; the torch fell unobstructed on the canvas, revealing vague colors and shapes, but he was too far away to tell—"May I see it?"

 

McKay blinked twice, still kneeling on the floor in an unconscious parody of courtly obsequiousness. "See—?"

 

"The painting." He took a step into the room without waiting for a response.

 

McKay struggled to his feet, throat working convulsively. "I—"

 

John took another step forward, bringing himself within arm's reach of his painter. "Please." His tone was not that of a request.

 

McKay nodded once, jerkily, and half-stumbled back. John approached the canvas, which gleamed wetly in the torchlight.

 

His own eyes stared back at him, burning out of the rich greens and midnight blacks of the background. The robes of his office swirled around his body, masking his torso but leaving his bare, bejeweled hands free to clutch the edges of them tightly around his waist. His pose was one of quiet strength and resolution, but his eyes . . . John felt himself falling into them, lost in the near impossible depth of his own eyes.

 

He didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until he heard McKay make a small, desperate noise from behind him. Tearing his gaze from the painting—portrait—he examined his painter in the torchlight.

 

"I never posed for this," he said softly, well aware that he was backlit by the torch and his face was drenched in shadow.

 

McKay, on the other hand, stood exposed by the light—his was a mask of fear, desperation and barely-controlled need. "I—apologize, Your Majesty," he began, "I can destroy—"

 

"No." John's voice was expressionless. McKay seemed unable to move.

 

"No," he said again, and took a step forward. McKay's face was too pale, as though willpower alone was keeping him upright.

 

"You're my painter," John said softly. He continued forward until their bodies were almost touching. "It's your job to . . ." he leaned in, putting his mouth nearly to McKay's ear, ". . . paint. Me." He leaned back slightly, noticing that McKay's eyes had fluttered shut, and he was breathing shallowly through his mouth.

 

"But I think you've missed something," he said in louder voice. McKay's flew open in surprise—"Yes, you've definitely missed something," John continued, turning back to the painting. He examined the work—his robes, his body, the colors blended so perfectly, so rich that he wanted to touch them—

 

"This—" he gestured vaguely—"is beautiful." He turned back to McKay. "But it isn't me."

 

McKay looked confused. "What—"

 

"These robes, the jewels—" Their faces were so close—"they aren't me."

 

McKay took a deep breath, his eyes focused somewhere around John's chin. "I can fix that."

 

"Yes." John took a step back, letting his cloak fall off his shoulders. "You can." His robes followed it to the stones of the floor. "And you will." His black silk undershirt fluttered softly down, leaving him bare from the waist up. He walked backwards, facing McKay, until he was behind the canvas. McKay seemed drawn involuntarily towards the easel, paintbrush clenched so hard his knuckles were white.

 

"Paint, McKay," John whispered.

 

The brush began to move.

 

* * *

 

McKay let the brush fall to the ground again when the first rays of the sun penetrated the dark of the studio. "I can't—the light's different—"

 

John suppressed a sigh of relief; his feet and back were sore from standing motionless all night, and the pressure building up behind his eyes reminded him that court would be in session in a few short hours. He gathered his robes from the floor, feeling McKay's tired yet penetrating gaze following his every move. He met those, focused eyes as he stood—"I'll come back tonight." Without waiting for a response, and intentionally not looking at the canvas, he strode as masterfully as his aching back would allow to the door.

 

* * *

 

The studio was like a haven after the longest day of his life. He'd managed to give a rough approximation of his usual self, but he knew Elizabeth had noticed something—while theirs may have been a political marriage, they had achieved mutual respect and a certain level of compassion for each other over the past five years. She hadn't pressed his evasions, however, for which he was grateful. Now, standing in the doorway again, the events of the day seemed far away and insignificant.

 

"Come in," McKay said in an almost peremptory tone. John obeyed, struck by the unusual attitude of his usually docile painter. He began to remove his robes again, and McKay watched dispassionately. McKay motioned to a stool. "Sit. You were exhausted by the end of last night, and it made you look tense. I want you relaxed and natural."

 

John thought about calling McKay on his tone, but something about it intrigued him. He sat silently on the proscribed stool, and held still. Without another word, McKay picked up his pallet and began to paint.

 

* * *

 

For over a week, the pattern continued. During the day, McKay was locked away in his studio, and on the rare occasions he encountered John in the court, he was his usual distracted self. But every night, the distraction melted away and his brusque almost-orders sent small shivers down John's spine. John never looked at the canvas, and McKay never showed him. Every night, McKay's gaze followed him from the moment he entered the studio until the moment he left, and John felt it like a palpable heat on his skin. McKay's voice had begun to affect him as well—not his quiet, bemused court voice, but his authoritative night voice; the combination of his eyes and voice, added to the cumulative exhaustion from the long nights with little sleep, left John feeling light-headed after each session. He stumbled back to his own chambers each night, and the few hours he slept were plagued with dreams of color, light, dark, heat, eyes and hands.

 

* * *

 

McKay put his brush down. "It's done." His voice was dead.

 

John shook himself out of his near-trance. "Done?"

 

McKay nodded once, curtly.

 

"May I see it?"

 

Nod.

 

John stood up shakily and walked over to the canvas. His face stared back at him as it had that first night, the eyes unchanged. But his body. . . gone were the robes and rings and jewels, and in there place was glowing, shining skin and muscle—light and shadow concealing and revealing and bringing to life the figure before him.

 

John's head swam; his eyes burned. "This—this is—"

 

"It's you," McKay stated. His voice was directly behind John, and close—too close. John felt his breath on the back of his neck. "But it's not all of you."

 

John's eyes rolled back in his head, his eyelids falling slowly shut. He leaned back slightly, not surprised to feel McKay's body directly behind him. Then McKay's face was buried in his neck, his arms wrapped loosely around John's waist. John gasped as McKay's mouth traveled up his neck to his ear, his skillful, strong hands moving in slow circles over John's bare stomach. He couldn't stand it any longer, and twisted in McKay's arms until they were face to face.

 

"Your Majesty—" McKay began.

 

He silenced McKay by capturing McKay's mouth with his own and breathing in through his painter's parted lips. He pressed his tongue into McKay's open mouth, feeling a thrill race through him as McKay's tongue met his and they explored each other's mouths. McKay's hands traveled down over his back, rubbing his body through his green velvet pants, grinding their hips together and John was harder then he could ever remember being. He had no idea how long they stood there, clutching at each other, needing each other, before McKay moved back slightly. "Corner," he gasped. "Bed."

 

John glanced over; in the corner was indeed a bed, artistically draped with sheer white sheets and probably hard as hell, but so was he, and he didn't care about anything except—

 

He stumbled backwards, pulling McKay after him, and they collapsed down with McKay's knee between John's legs and their mouths still exploring. John pressed down against McKay's leg, trying to push deeper into his mouth, but then McKay was moving back again, straightening up and looking down at him with an unreadable expression. John writhed in frustration—"What are you--?"

 

And McKay was back, kissing his way down John's neck and chest to the top of his pants, nuzzling his crotch through the crushed velvet and lace. John arched up off the bed with an inarticulate cry and McKay pulled back again, eyes dark with lust and face flushed.

 

"Oh god," John gasped—"Don't—don't stop—"

 

McKay's hand closed over his crotch, rubbing slowly and firmly as he put his mouth next to John's ear—"I want to paint you," he said in a rough voice. "Just like this. I want to capture you writhing under me; you're so beautiful and I want you to be like this forever—" His breath caressed John's ear as he slipped his hand into John's pants. John moaned, deep in the back of his throat, and his head fell back. McKay's mouth explored his jaw line, moving down his throat. "Come on, let go," he murmured, "Come for me—" he pulled once, long and hard, and John arched up off the bed with a wordless cry, "—my King."

 

The words registered as he lay there panting; he reached out to grab McKay and pull him down and kiss him until words like "King" and "Majesty" had lost all meaning—but McKay wasn't there, he was back at his easel with paper and pencils and John couldn't do anything but look at him in confusion.

 

"Don't move," McKay ordered, and it was his strong voice. John felt a shiver course through him, and he was too weak to disobey. He stared at McKay, wanting to say something but not sure what, and McKay glanced up at him once. "You're tired. You should sleep." The pencil never stopped moving, even as McKay's eyes were locked in his. John opened his mouth to speak, and McKay smiled.

 

"Don't speak, either." He glanced back at the paper, and looked pleased. "Really, your Majesty. Sleep."

 

John's eyes were already beginning to close; he wanted to protest, but he just . . . couldn't . . . he was almost asleep when he heard McKay's pencil stop moving as though from a great distance. The last thing he heard before sleep claimed him were the words of his painter, spoken in a voice that was both gentle and amused:

 

"I'll be here to wake you in the morning, your Majesty. . . and you'll need the energy for tomorrow night."

 

_Fin?_


End file.
